I couldn’t help but think of my grandmother, who once told me, “I used to pick over one hundred pounds of cotton a day. I would pick as much as the mens would.” Her words have stayed with me.

The room was alive with the glow of women—mothers, daughters, sisters, friends—radiating in every shade of walnut, pecan, cinnamon, toffee, and vanilla. It was a gathering where I could look around and see reflections of myself, my mother, my aunt, my cousin, my sister. 

It’s important to recognize that before Black women were ever celebrated as “designers,” they were highly sought-after dressmakers. Their skill with the needle was not only practical but artistic—producing garments that shaped households, communities, and even the wardrobes of the wealthy.

That sense of wonder, of freedom, of not having a single worry in the world. What a gift. If I can protect even a sliver of that little girl inside me, the one who still gets butterflies before big days, I’ll count that as a win.